There's More than One Way to Remove a Bullet
by wrenegade
Summary: Dean and Sam get a case that takes them to the deep south. An old series of murders that happened around the time of the Civil War are happening again. Is it a ghost? Or a sick serial killer Copy Cat? What happens when Dean takes a bullet trying to save the latest victim? Will she be his undoing or his salvation? Rated for language and content.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Tuscaloosa, Alabama, 1864

Beneath a weeping willow tree, a lovers quarrel took place on a warm summer's eve. A young woman, her brown hair plaited down her back leaned against the trunk of the tree, feeling the breeze blow throw the willows, the loose strands of her hair tickling her neck and cheek. The man she loved stood in front of her, professing his undying love. They weren't supposed to be alone together. Hell, they weren't supposed to be together at all, even supervised.

"Opal, you know how much I care 'bout you. I wanna git married, have little'uns, grow old together. Why won't you see reason?" Jackson Sylvane pleaded with his beloved, Opal Maxwell. He'd been proposing nearly every day for the last month, and she continually turned him down. He reached out his hand to cup her beautiful face but she turned away. She was having none of it.

"Reason?" Opal scoffed. "Reason's got nothing to do with it. You're Romeo Montague and I'm Juliet Capulet. The only way this ends is in tragedy."

Jackson shook his head. "C'mon, you know I never read that book. I don't know what yer talkin' 'bout."

Rolling her eyes, Opal spat out that it was a play not a book. "The Montagues and Capulets were like the Maxwells and the Sylvanes. They hated each other. And the boy from the Montagues and the girl from the Capulets fell madly in love. And then they both died. The end. Do you want that to happen to us, Jack? Cuz I sure don't." Opal was the youngest and only daughter of Maxwell family, which owned the biggest plantation in Tuscaloosa, growing cotton and tobacco. Unlike many of the other plantations in the south, the Maxwells did not use slave labor. Any of the people that worked the fields were paid, and never beaten for not meeting quotas.

Jackson Sylvane was the youngest of the Sylvane family, who also claimed to own the biggest plantation and was the Maxwell's number one competition. And that was only because the Sylvanes did use slaves, so they didn't lose profit in wages for their workers. This sparked an ongoing feud between the families that went back for generations, since before the founding of Tuscaloosa itself. Half of the city supported the Maxwells and bought their goods, while the other bought from the Sylvane family. The feud got to be so brutal, the children had to be in separate schools, lest they fight each other on a daily basis.

"We'll run away," Jackson suggested. "We can pack a trunk and get a wagon and we'll run away. Hell, we'll go north. No one would expect that, not with my Daddy and brothers being in the war 'n all. 'N you can talk real pretty like them yanks, too. I'll just keep quiet, I'm best that way anyway. We'll be fine."

Opal considered his idea for a moment, but knew that no matter what, she couldn't ever be with him. She couldn't ever be with anyone. It had nothing to do with her being a Maxwell and him a Sylvane. There were other reasons at play. Reasons she couldn't tell him. She knew she had to be harsh, cruel and rude even to get him to let her go. "I'm sorry Jack, the answer is no. We can't be together. I don't want this. Not now. Not here, Not anywhere and not ever." She walked away from him then, never to look back.

In fact, that was the last anyone had ever seen of Opal Maxwell. Alive, anyhow. A day after that argument, she was found strung up in that very willow tree, hanged. Seeing as the feud between the Maxwells and Sylvanes was as old as time, and the tree was on Sylvane property, everyone knew one of the Sylvanes was behind it. Jackson himself was hanged for her murder after a week. No trial, no arrest, just a group of Maxwells and their followers snatched him from his home and hanged him in the very same tree.

Then the head of both families decided the feud was long overdue to end. They were both distraught and grieving the loss of their youngest children. The Maxwells up and moved out of town, never to be heard from again.

* * *

Present Day – Lebanon, Kansas "The Bunker"

Sam PoV

I'm seated at one of the large mahogany tables that are spaced throughout the main room in the bunker. Sifting through news articles online trying to find a case while Dean is making us something to eat in the kitchen. He's taken to that kitchen like a fish to water, and I never knew him to cook before now. I guess now that we've got a place to call our own, he's feeling at home. Bobby's was a great stop-off, but never felt like home. Hell, I've never had a place that felt homey, even in college when I wasn't in this life. Nothing felt like home. This place doesn't really either, more like a place to do work, but at least the bed is comfy and hasn't been slept in by countless vagrants and prostitutes.

Not too far into my search, I come upon an interesting article. The title alone grabs my attention. "Let's see if this is a legit haunting or not," I muse to myself.

TUSCALOOSA NEWS

"The haunting of Tuscaloosa

Every year for the past three years, on the anniversary of the hanging of Opal Maxwell in 1864, a young woman is shot and hanged under mysterious circumstances. She always has brown hair, green eyes, and has been dressed in garb of the 1860s. Per the historic records, Opal Maxwell was a brunette with 'jade' colored eyes. At the request of the victims' families, their names will not be published in this newspaper. While each woman was hanged in the tree, hanging, or more specifically, severing of the spinal cord, was not the cause of death.

Coroner report says they all three were shot to death by a gun made in the 1800s. Ballistics can't match the exact make of the gun as whatever it is was handmade, which is nothing new to these parts. Back then, many used to forge their own guns if they had the right materials. Apart from the centuries old bullets, the killer leaves behind zero evidence. While it shows that the women are putting up a fight, they found no skin under their nails nor DNA evidence anywhere on them. There are no prints, no fibers, no hairs, nothing. It's as if the killer is a ghost.

So, is this a haunting by Opal Maxwell herself, or is some other force at play? An interesting tidbit of information is that the deaths began not long after the old Sylvane Plantation House was torn down. Local history denotes a major family feud between the Maxwells and Sylvanes that ended upon the deaths of Opal Maxwell and Jackson Sylvane, the city's very own Romeo and Juliet of their time.

The anniversary of the Opal Maxwell hanging is fast approaching. Will there be another death this year? Brunettes all around are taking to wearing wigs or even dying their hair and wearing colored contacts to avoid being targeted by this supposed ghostly killer. Will it be enough or will the ghost of Opal Maxwell see through their disguises?"

I stop reading, having decided it was right up our alley. Doing some more digging on the history of the area, I find a similar string of murders happened in the late 1860s and early 1870s. Every year on the same date, a young brunette would be hanged in that same tree. The killings abruptly stopped in the mid 1870s until three years ago. Dean comes in with our food then and I say, "Let's take it to go. Got a case in Alabama."

"Dude, I haven't even had my first bite yet. Can't we eat now and then leave?" Dean complains. He's always got food on his mind. All day every day.

"Well every year for the past few years, young women have been ceremonially hanged on the anniversary of a hanging murder from back in 1864. The woman hanged back then had brown hair and green eyes just like the women being hanged now. Even the paper is theorizing that the ghost of Opal Maxwell is killing these girls. It always happens on the anniversary of her death. And that's coming up in a couple days. We don't have much time."

"Yeah, that sounds like our kinda thing. But what if it's just some crazy history buff going all serial?"

I nod. "I thought of that, too. But these women aren't actually killed by hanging. They're being shot first and then hanged as a sort of ritual or placement. No murder weapons, no prints, no fibers, nothing. Ballistics can't match the bullet because the gun was made in the 1800s and was probably handmade by the wielder. Plus an identical string of murders happened in the late 1860s and early 1870s when they abruptly stopped, my guess, some hunter back then found out how to bind the ghost or something. And now they're started up again, meaning someone let little Opal out. It says the killings started not long after the old Sylvane plantation house was torn down. Sounds like a trigger to me."

"Alright," Dean agrees, taking a bite of his burger. "Let's head out." We each grab our go bags, refill our ammo stores, lock up the bunker and hit the road.

After checking into the cheapest motel in town, we don our FBI suits, grab our badges and head towards the police station. "Help you?" The man behind the counter asks.

"Yes, I'm agent Grohl, this is Agent Hagar. We're here about this Haunting of Tuscaloosa," Dean introduces, flashing his badge. I show mine as well. No one ever notices that they're fake.

"Those poor girls," the man replies, shaking his head. "What does the FBI have to do with it, though?"

"Well considering the newspaper said similar killings went on over a hundred years ago, we're wondering if it's a copy-cat serial killer," I answer. "We'd like to stop it before another young woman loses her life. The anniversary is coming up quick."

"Yeah, it sure is, isn't it. Actually, it's midnight tomorrow night that it'll happen, if the last three years are any indication. So the clock is tickin' even faster. My daughter even dyed her hair red in hopes of being overlooked by whoever's doin' this. I'm glad you two are here; we'll take any help we can get."

"Can we get a list of the victims' names and their families' info? That wasn't available in the paper."

"Yeah, lemme just get you some copies of the case files." He turns and heads towards the file room.

"Finally a helpful police officer," Dean muses. "Maybe they really do need all the help they can get. With no evidence or witnesses, kinda hard to build a case against anyone or anything."

The officer returns with a few manila folders. "Here's the files, agents. Everything we got on these latest three murders. I wish we had some case files from way back when, but as you can imagine, there wasn't much of a filin' system in the 1870s. And I think there was a fire at some point, lost some records. You might find some of the old newspapers at the library, though."

"What's the general idea, officer? I mean, we know what the paper said, but what do the locals think?" I ask.

"Many think it's a ghost, to tell ya the truth. I mean you put the bug in the ear of some of these southern folk and they run with it. Got people layin' down salt at their doors and windows to keep the ghost from gettin' in their house and snatchin' up the young women. Another lot think it's a distant relative of the deceased, carrying out vengeance of some kind. Others think these gals had it comin' to 'em, though can't say as to why.

"I think the paper said something about an old feud between the Maxwells and the Sylvanes, and that was true. Hell, they were worse than the Hatfields and the McCoys, I hear. The feud ended when Opal Maxwell and Jackson Sylvane were both killed and the Maxwells moved to Birmingham, leaving everything here behind."

"There's info at the library you said, like old papers and the like?" I ask.

"Sure," the officer answers, nodding. "They never had a fire, so they should still have all that old stuff, even property records and deeds, I think. Last I heard they were working on converting some of it to digital copies, not sure where they're at with that though. Best of luck."

We thank the officer and leave the precinct, files tucked under our arms. Ten minutes later, we're at the library, taking over two of the workstations that do indeed have all the old newspapers and documents on file.

"Look here," I say, pointing at one of the articles. "Tragic killing of Opal Maxwell. Says she was killed by Jackson Sylvane after she refused to marry him. Quotes from the family members say that she knew what her Daddy would do if she married a Sylvane so she broke off her courtship with him. Jackson went nuts and killed her. Says the Maxwell boys knew she was courting, but not that it was with the Sylvane boy. And the Sylvanes said they knew all along and were trying to get Jackson to break it off.

"Next article is about Jackson's hanging. While not sanctioned by the police, the Maxwells were met with no resistance from the authorities. They basically lynched Jackson in the same tree that he hanged Opal from. Sylvanes didn't even retaliate. The parents were so distraught that they just ended the feud and the Maxwells left without another word, just like the officer said."

"All I'm finding on the hangings after that are the obits," Dean says. "Just the names and ages of the young women. No articles on why they were killed or anything.

"So really, we could be dealing with the ghost of either one of these people, right? They both have an MO. Opal could be reliving her own death and carrying it out on unsuspecting brunettes. Or Jackson could be still angry at Opal for leaving him, and taking it out on the afore mentioned unsuspecting brunettes," Dean suggests.

"Afore mentioned?" I tease, smirking at my brother.

"I've looked in a dictionary; try not to faint," Dean replies, affronted. "My money's on the chick with a vengeance. Hell hath no fury and all that, though you'd think she'd go after young men that look like Jackson rather than her own lookalikes. Anyway, let's dig 'er up and burn her bones."

We find the graveyard with little assistance and the Maxwell family plot. Not too far into the area we find Opal Maxwell's grave. "Here lies Opal Maxwell 1845 – 1864. Beloved daughter and sister." It's nearing midnight when we finish digging up the grave. My shovel hits wood and we know we're nearly done. Using the pickaxe to tear open the coffin, we clear away the wood and dirt only to see the coffin is empty. Or rather, filled with sandbags, but no remains. Dean pokes at a bag with the pick axe. "Dude, what the hell? They buried an empty coffin?"

"Not empty, sand bags," I say, picking up one of the burlap sacks. "I'll bet enough to make the pallbearers think they were carrying a body."

"Okay, so where's she really buried then? I didn't read anything about a private tomb or anything. The other Maxwells appear to be here, unless they're all empty coffins, too."

"Dude, I'm not curious enough to keep digging up coffins," I reply. Dean considers for a moment, but then decides to side with me. Too much work for probably zero pay out. "So Opal's remains aren't here. It doesn't seem like someone's already been grave digging, it's more like they never actually buried her here, but wanted it to look like they did. Undertakers back then would nail the coffins shut before the family even got to have a viewing. Maybe it was something sinister on his side, selling off dead body parts to some crazy person. Who knows."

"The Maxwell house is still standing. Empty, too, if I recall from what I saw in the property reports. Let's go see if we can't find something in the cellar maybe," Dean suggests. We shovel the dirt back over the grave and replace the grass, to make it look as if we were never there. Having those charges on our names for grave desecration kind made us think twice before leaving a cemetery without making it look as if nothing untoward had happened.

Cutting out the headlights before reaching the old Maxwell house, Dean sees a light coming from one of the windows. "Doesn't look so empty to me," he says.

"Hmm, the property records said this house is still in the Maxwell family's name, but it's been uninhabited for years," I reply. "Since the Maxwells moved away in 1864 from what I read, anyway. So who's here now?" We creep up to the house as quietly as we can but don't see anyone in the windows. Listening closely, I hear the water running, as if someone's taking a shower.

"Gotta be squatters," Dean states. "Let's come back tomorrow during the day. They'll probably be gone."

"Someone's been caring for that house, Dean. I don't think it's squatters." I note. "I mean, it's got modern lighting fixtures, electricity, running water, and so forth. So if no one's been living here, why is it so updated?"

"I dunno, but it's getting late. Let's grab some grub and a drink and then hit the hay for a few hours. We'll start fresh in the morning. Maybe talk to some of the victims' families." I agrees reluctantly, and they head back to the car and back to town. Across the street from their motel is a bar & grill. I'm not particularly hungry, nor do I want to drink like Dean does, but food does sound kinda good.

I find us a table while Dean goes to order at the bar, since there doesn't appear to be any wait staff working tonight. There's a young woman tending bar, she's a brunette like the others, but has blue eyes rather than green. "Aren't you worried about this supposed haunting?" Dean asks, putting on his flirtatious face.

The bartender points at her eyes. "Heading out of town as soon as my shift is over, though. I don't have green eyes, so apparently I'm not the killer's type, but I'm taking no chances. Didn't feel much like coloring my hair just to save my hide for one night. Killer never finds victims outside of town, so I figure I'll be safe staying with my cousins for a night or two," she answers. "Even back in the 1860s when this started with that damn Maxwell girl, they were always green eyed women, but still. You never know. What'll it be?"

"Two whiskeys, and two double cheeseburgers with everything," Dean requests.. "So what's your theory? Is it a ghost or a serial killer who then passed on his crazy to the next generation?"

"I think Jackson Sylvane started it all when he killed Opal Maxwell, then they Sylvane family wanted to clear his name by creating this haunting scare. Every year they plucked another green eyed brunette from her home and hanged her. And now it's a copycat. A copycat that doesn't have a clue how to properly hang someone since he's shootin' the poor girls first."

That is something to consider, I think. Opal and the other women killed back then were merely hanged, so if it is a ghost, why is the ghost shooting them now? Once the burgers are done, Dean takes them and the drinks to our table and I propose my idea based on what the bartender was saying. "Ghosts don't change their MO, right?"

"Usually not. Why?" Dean asks, dipping a fry in ketchup.

"Because, I overheard the very blue eyed and possibly safe bartender just point out that Opal and the deaths after hers were just hangings, not shootings," I explain. Dean nods. "So why is the ghost shooting them now? And furthermore, how is a ghost holding a gun? Back then weren't they made of mostly iron?"

"Wooden handle?" Dean suggests. "Unless… unless the gunshot wounds were never published."

I sit up in the booth. That has to be it. "Y'know how police will leave out certain details of the case? Then if they have a new victim and those things aren't present, they know it's a copycat, but if they are present, they know it's the same killer."

Dean frowns in thought. "You might be on to something, Sammy. And since the fire took out a lot of the old records, the police wouldn't know that little tidbit now. All they'd have to go off of is the old newspapers, which of course wouldn't have that detail. Maybe Opal was shot. Be nice if we had her remains, we could have looked for a bullet." Though we both know we'd have salted and burned the remains before checking for any evidence.

"Yeah, that's still something, too," I agree. "I can't imagine where her family would have buried her. There has to be another story there. Plus what would be the point of shooting someone and then hanging them? All the coroner's reports say the women were shot first and then hanged, based on the marks on the neck being post mortem. If they were hanged first and then shot when the hanging didn't kill them, the marks on the neck would look different.

Dean then perks up a bit. "That and, how do you hang someone? You don't lay their body out, throw the rope over the branch and hoist them up. You drop the poor sap from high, which causes the neck to break, right? The files we read said the victims were pulled upwards, indicating the hanging was just for show. So in these cases, it's a display."

"I think we need to talk to the victims' families. I mean I thought that before, but if they can shed any light on this that the police didn't note or pick up on, then we need to know ASAP." Dean agrees, throws some cash on the bar on our way out and thanks the bartender. She waves absently as we walk out.

In the morning, we dress in their FBI suits again and head towards the first modern victim's house. Jessica Larson, age 23 was shot with an old gun and then strung up in the willow tree four years ago tonight. "I'm sorry to drudge this all up again," I say, my empathetic expression firmly in place on my face. "It's just tonight is the anniversary and we're doing all we can to prevent this tragedy from happening to another family."

"It's okay, I understand," the father replies, allowing the agents to enter the home. "I'm glad they finally brought the FBI into this. Clearly the police aren't capable of solving this case."

"Yes, we tried to look into the old records from when this happened in the 1860s, but I guess there was a fire that took out those old records."

"You're right," the father agrees. "1890, I think was the fire. My great great grandparents had to rebuild their house." He holds up a photo taken from an old newspaper that depicts the charred remains of a house that used to sit on this very lot. "But you're not here about that. You're here about Jessica."

"Correct," Dean replies. "We read in the case file that she was here on summer break from college and was taken right from her room?"

"Yes, that's right. I heard her window closing," the mother piped in, sitting on the sofa next to her husband. "Can I offer you some tea or lemonade?" She asks. Dean moves to accept, but I give him a look. We both decline. "I was awake that night, reading," Mrs. Larson continued. "I thought she was sneaking out, even though she had no cause to do so. She was an adult, we wouldn't have stopped her going out. It was August, but it was so cold in the house that night, I remember. Maybe I was just getting chills. Mother's intuition and all that." Dean and Sam exchange a glance.

"There was no indication that she was taken," Mr. Larson adds. "No struggle in the room, nothing. Even if I'd checked her room right after my wife heard the window, I'd still have assumed she simply snuck out."

"We're in a support group with the other families," Mrs. Larson says. "They all report the same thing. Their daughters were home either from college or they still lived at home. And late at night they were taken from their rooms. I really hope you catch this sick bastard. We don't buy the ghost haunting bull. Our next youngest daughter dyed her beautiful brown hair a yellow blonde so she doesn't get picked. She's younger than the other girls, but who knows if that even makes a difference."

We thank them for their time and head to the next girl's house. Like the first one, the parents reported a chill in the air that night. "I checked her room that night, to make sure she was warm enough," the mother said. "That's when I learned she was gone. Based on the coroner's reported time of death, I must have checked the room only minutes after she was taken. It was around eleven thirty, and he said she was killed at midnight."

The next family reported nearly exactly the same thing. Too cold for an August night in Tuscaloosa, and their daughter was snatched from her room without a sound. "I mean, they each had me at the cold spots they all felt," Dean says as we're walking away from the last house. "Plus, I don't care how good a serial killer you are, there's no way you leave behind zero trace. It's a ghost. Vengeful as fuck for some reason. We just gotta find where the hell they buried Opal Maxwell."

"What if it wasn't her?" I retort. "What if she was just the first victim? So they all say it's on the anniversary of her hanging, but only because it was her hanging that started the cycle."

"Like a ritualistic killing and she's victim zero?"

I shrug. "Maybe. Or maybe the killer was just a person back then. A serial killer before there were serial killers. A person would have no trouble getting a woman out of the house and hanging her. A ghost however, that would prove to be a challenge. The papers said the killings stopped in 1875, right? Killer probably died or was jailed for some other crime. And now, somehow the ghost got triggered and the killings have started again only slightly different than the first time.

"You think the ghost is luring the women from their beds?" Dean asks. "Since it can't just snatch them, not without some serious ghost juice, anyway."

"I think this is like HH Holmes all over again." I add. "Only where he killed all kinds of blonde girls in rapid succession, this one reserves his crazy for one night a year. He's probably using some kind of seduction tactic like an incubus would to get the women to leave their rooms through the window and out into the night with him."

"Think we should head over to the Maxwell house?" Dean suggests. "Maybe whoever has taken up residence there will be out and about for the day."

I agree and we head off towards the old plantation house. No sounds are heard when we approach the house and the doors are unlocked. We creep through the house as quietly as possible. Most of the furniture is covered in protective dust cloths, but it's clear that someone's been moving about. The kitchen is clear of dust and the droplets in the sink indicate someone's been there recently. One of the bedrooms has the bed uncovered and has been lived in. "How long do you think this person's been here?" I ask.

"Can't be long or I'd imagine people would know. I mean I get this house is kind of out of the way, but in towns like these, people can't just show up without someone taking notice. Based on the garments in the closet, it's a woman."

"And based on these hairs, she's a brunette," I adds, holding up a hairbrush that has a few strands hanging from it. She's got about the same hair color as me. "From what we've been told all the women around here have been dying their hair red or blonde or some other color to prevent this travesty. This house is the closest to the scene of any house and this woman isn't bothering to hide her hair color, unless she's wearing a wig, and I don't see any wig-stands around. So either she has a death wish or…"

"Or she doesn't know what's going on. And maybe the townsfolk have seen her and don't know her so they're not warning her," Dean adds.

"Like serving up a lamb to the slaughter." I'm reminded of our case involving the Norse god, Vanir. The townspeople would lure in a couple every year to serve up to the god as a sacrifice, lest he take their people or kill the crops in town. I'd gotten to town just in time to save Dean and some girl from being killed by the creepy scarecrow. Maybe these people are seeing a stranger come through town, obviously one that hasn't read the papers or doesn't believe what's going on, and not bothering to warn her. They could be thinking, "She's not one of us, why should we be concerned? Let her be the sacrifice this year."

Dean takes a look at me and we both know what needs to happen. "We gotta find her." We rush out of the house and jump back into the impala. Fishtailing out of the driveway, we make a beeline for town to try and find the only brunette still hanging around town. We check the bars, gas stations, grocery stores, everywhere, and she's nowhere to be found. Even asking around if anyone has seen a young brunette, everyone laughs and makes a mention of, "That girl would have to be crazy to stick around."

"Let's head to the scene of the crime. Midnight's coming soon and if that's any indication, there'll be another body there before too long. Maybe we can catch the ghost if we're early enough," Dean suggests.

When we get to the tree which is at the back corner of the old Sylvane plantation, there is indeed a young woman, dressed like she popped out of the 1860s, and arguing with who appears to be Jackson Sylvane. We rush to the tree, hoping that maybe this time they can save the victim.

"Um, hi. Who are you?" Dean asks. I notice that she's got brown hair and green eyes. She turns to us, but says nothing. The look on her face tells me she did not expect anyone to show up.

"I told you! If I can't have you, no one can!" An angry Jackson Sylvane screams at the woman. Hell, he still has the rope around his neck from when he was hanged. She doesn't look afraid; if anything she looks annoyed.

"I came back, Jackson. I'm here. You can stop killing these innocent women in your attempt to punish me. I'm right here." She sounds so defeated, as if she's accepting her fate.

"Is she pretending to be Opal?" Dean whispers to me. We haven't been noticed by Jackson yet and we might be able to get the drop on the ghost and shoot him full of rock salt before he kills the girl.

Jackson strides confidently up to the girl. She doesn't quiver in fear or shrink away, just awaits him. He holds his gun up to her chest and is ready to pull the trigger.

"You couldn't just let it go, could you? You couldn't accept that I just wasn't able to be with you." I realize she's indeed playing along in the ghost's delusion. Maybe it'll save her life. Or maybe she's suicidal and came to this town on purpose.

Jackson begins to cry, the wooden handled pistol wobbling in his hand. "You said we'd be together forever. You said no matter what you'd always love me."

The girl shakes her head. "No Jackson. I never said we'd be together forever. I said we'd be connected forever. And I do love you. I always have and always will."

"But it isn't enough. Love isn't enough. You had to go and let our families' fight get in the way. Why, Opal. Why?"

Dean reels, getting a good look at the woman's face. "Is it just me or does she look exactly like the original Opal?" he whispers to me. I nod, noticing she bears a striking resemblance to the girl we saw in the old newspaper articles. Granted the photo was faded, grainy, and black and white, but it's her. I get my rifle ready to shoot the ghost.

"Distant relative maybe? Or she's a ghost, too," I respond. Though she doesn't look much like one. Meanwhile the two are still arguing. Things are getting heated, a screaming match going on between them. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was the real deal. Opal Maxwell in the flesh somehow. Stranger things have happened to us. Jackson holds up his pistol again points it right at the woman.

Before deciding to even do it, Dean throws himself in front of her when Jackson fires off a shot. "Holy shit I just got shot!" he says as he hits the ground.

"Dean!" I shout. I rush over to him, staring at the ugly bullet wound on his abdomen. He took a bullet for a complete stranger. One that I'm not entirely sure is even human. What the hell was he thinking?

I look up and see the girl pulling an iron chain out of the bag that was at her feet and tosses it at me. "Bind Jackson," she commands. I don't move. I can't; I'm frozen in shock staring at Dean's bleeding body. He's dying. "Hey! You!" She pokes me in the chest. I come to, realizing she shouldn't have been able to do that if she was a ghost. Most ghosts can't just touch humans like that, anyway. Nor should she be able to hold onto iron chains. "I can help your friend, just get these around that ghost, now!" As if under a trance, I take them from her and quickly wrap them around Jackson. Normally, iron touches a ghost and they mist out, only to appear a while later, angrier than before. But these chains are actually keeping him there, holding him prisoner. Binding chains. I then toss Jackson onto the ground so he can't run off even bound by chains.

Looking back at Dean, I throw myself at the ground next to him again, searching for anything I can use to stop the bleeding. The girl tries to calm me down, pressing her hand against my shoulder.

"What's your name?" she asks me, taking my hands in hers. She's awfully calm for having just been accosted by a ghost, and dealing with a man down. He took a bullet for her; why isn't she doing more to help? She could have called an ambulance minutes ago!

"Sam, Sam Winchester," I finally answer. "This is my brother, Dean. Please, we need to get him to a hospital."

She kneels down to Dean, who's now beginning to cough up blood. He looks her in the eyes and has a look of absolute trust and wonder on his face. Does Dean know this girl? She tears away a chunk of his shirt, revealing the wound in all its gory glory. "He took the bullet not far from his heart. It's probably in his lung. Even if we leave now, we'll be too late. Dean, I can help you. But I need you to give me your permission," the woman tells him.

Dean looks at me first, then back to the girl before nodding his consent. The look on my face must have told him all he needed to know. I was not about to live without my big brother. No dice. The girl takes a knife out of her boot and uses it to open a vein in her wrist. She then lets her blood drip over Dean's bullet wound. Squeezing her fist so more blood drips out, the woman assures Dean it won't harm him, it'll only heal. I can't say why, but I believe her.

I'm watching in fascination as this girl bleeds over my brother. "What is your blood gonna do? What are you?" She doesn't respond, just lets more blood seep out of her wrist and into Dean's body. "You're poisoning him!" I try to wrench her off of him, but I see something impossible. The bullet pops out of Dean's chest, rolling off of him and onto the ground. Then the wound heals up. Not even a scar left behind. It's as if he was never shot in the first place.

"What the hell did you do to me?" Dean rasps, taking in a deep breath.

The girl drops the knife and backs away, holding her hands up in surrender. "I healed you," she answers. "I don't know how or why, but my blood heals."

"Who are you?" I ask, though I have a feeling I already know the answer.

"I'm Opal Maxwell."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Only one review so far… so either this story sucks, or I'm just not getting enough viewership on it. Or the SPN readers like more to a story before they review it. I'm not a "review whore" but only one seems a bit odd for one of my stories. This is my first SPN story, so maybe that's it. If you like my writing, go and check out my SPN/Twilight crossover, "The True Battle Lies Within." I've made Bella far more bad-ass than she was in the original canon, and Edward's an arse-copter. Enjoy!

Also, I made some changes to Chapter 1 of this story and re-posted it, so please re-read it before reading this chapter. Thanks in advance and I hope you enjoy the continuation of this story!

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Chapter 2

Opal PoV

"I'm Opal Maxwell," I reply. "And I'd love to go into more detail, but the police will be here soon since they're expecting a new body, and I'd rather not explain all the blood on the ground with no wounds, how I'm a green eyed brunette and still alive, and most importantly how we have the ghost of Jackson Sylvane bound in iron chains. So… back to my house?"

The two men agree and drag a kicking and screaming ghost of Jackson Sylvane to my house. Sam adjusts the chain to cover Jackson's mouth so he can shut the hell up. Soon, we arrive at my house and I lead them to the cellar where I've got a ghost trap painted on the floor. Sam flings Jackson down onto it and he remains still and silent, the trap keeping him dormant.

"Okay now. Spill," Dean says. "How are you Opal Maxwell? What the hell did you do to me? And how do you know about binding and trapping ghosts?"

"Let's go upstairs and sit down. It's a lot of information," I suggest. Sam and Dean exchange a look, but decide to follow me upstairs to the sitting room. I remove the dust cloths from some of the chairs and tell them to make themselves at home. In the kitchen, I find some glasses, bottles of beer, and a bottle of whiskey and place them all on a serving tray. They seem the type to need a drink to wind down after what just happened.

"Figure you might need a drink," I offer, setting the array of drinks on the coffee table. Dean takes a beer, opening it against the table. He's scratched the wood on my two hundred year old table, but I don't have it in me to care at the moment.

"Okay, I was born in 1845. I am the original Opal Maxwell that was shot and hanged by Jackson Sylvane."

"How?" Dean asks simply.

"I'll get to that in a moment, but I think I should start with the story of my own murder and go from there, yes?" Dean nods, satisfied with my answer.

"So the original deaths did include shootings," Sam muses. "The police precinct doesn't have the old files due to a fire, they said." Opal nods.

"Yes, every person that Jackson has killed was first with a bullet and then hanging in a tree. The reason was because the bullet didn't kill me. He shot me with it and I was still standing there, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened and why blood was pouring out of my body. It hurt after a bit, but at the time, my body was in shock, so I wasn't feeling the pain just yet. That's when he knocked me out, carried me up the tree and dropped me from it."

"And it broke your neck," Sam adds. She nods. "Why didn't the bullet kill you?"

"At the time I had some idea. I know more now. The papers back then said he and I were having a sordid love affair and I left him because I knew what my father would do if I eloped with a Sylvane." Both brothers nod in agreement. "That wasn't it. I wasn't leaving Jackson because of the family feud. I left because I knew I wasn't normal, and I couldn't go on pretending to be."

"Go on," Dean urges, taking a sip from his beer.

"Ever since I was little, probably since I was born, I've been able to heal really fast. I'd fall and scrape my knee and before I could even look at it, it'd be healed. My folks always wondered how I played so hard as a kid but never got hurt. I did, they just never saw it. My wounds and broken bones would always heal within seconds. I knew it wasn't normal; I knew if anyone found out, especially a Sylvane, that I'd be ostracized from the community or worse."

"Why wasn't Jackson in the army?" Sam asks. Smart guy, at least he knows we were in the middle of a war when this happened.

"I can only speak as to why my brothers weren't, and it's because we were yankee sympathizers. And it was better for us to stay out of the war than to fight for the Union, lest we all be lynched by the townsfolk. The Sylvanes had their own reasons, I suppose, but none of their boys went off to war either. I had hoped Jackson would go, so I wouldn't have to leave him the way I did, but he never left and I never asked why. I think their father bought them out of it by giving a 'donation' to the confederacy in exchange for not recruiting his boys.

"My courtship with Jackson had gotten to the point where he was wanting to marry me and I knew I couldn't. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he learned about my little quirk. So I broke it off with him. And when I did, he went into a blind rage and shot me. When that didn't do the trick, he hanged me. And I did die. My neck broke, thus severing my spinal cord and my heart stopped. I was well and truly dead.

"It wasn't until the undertaker was cleaning me up to bury me that they removed the noose and straightened out my neck. Everything fused back together and I came back to life. The undertaker about lost his lunch when he saw me bolt up off the table, gasping for air. It was like I went from being shot to waking up in the funeral parlor across town a second later.

"After calming myself down, and then the undertaker, I told him to fill my coffin with sand or whatever so it would be heavy enough to make everyone believe I was inside, paid him as much money as I could and I ran away. I learned that I couldn't be killed, not permanently anyway, and that made my need to leave that much more dire. I snuck into my house, took a trunk worth of clothes and supplies and was on the next train outta Tuscaloosa, destination anywhere else."

"And then Jackson was killed a week later, right?" Dean asks. Opal nods.

"Yes, my brothers lynched him. Then the fathers decided enough was enough and ended the feud, calling a truce since the youngest of both families were killed so brutally. The Maxwells moved away after that, settling in Birmingham."

"This doesn't explain how you're a hundred and seventy years old, but don't look a day over twenty-five," Dean states.

"After I died the first time, I stopped aging. Since I woke up in front of the undertaker, I've not aged a day." Still figuring that one out.

"Wow," Sam adds. "That's incredible. You said died the first time. You've died more than once?

"Er, yeah," I reply. "I was experimenting, so I tried all manner of ways, and I have been murdered a few times, but all in situations I put myself in on purpose. I never have had a death wish, but when you learn you can't die, you kind of start to want to know how many ways there are to die."

"I've died more than my fair share of times, too," Dean replies. "Sammy, as well. Now back to the story."

I laugh. Dean is a bit too enthusiastic about all this. I'll have to ask him more about the dying multiple times later, but this is about me right now. "A few years later, I heard about the killings happening. I was up in New York, trying to move on with my life, working as a nurse. But when it happened several years in a row, it made national news. I saw it as the front page story on a paper at a news stand. It said how every year on the same date that I 'died' another girl that looked like me got killed the same way. Shot and then hanged. 'Course with them, the bullet did its job, so the hanging was pointless. I couldn't figure out who was killing the girls until 1875 when I came back to town and witnessed it myself.

"It was Jackson. He looked pale and sickly but he was luring these women out of their homes and to that blasted willow tree. I knew he had to be a ghost. It wasn't much of a stretch considering I'd come back from the dead. Where as I was still alive and human, he was a ghost. I spent the next few months researching ways to stop ghosts. I had hoped to finally put him to rest, as it appeared that all he was really doing was reliving the last week of his life.

"The only things I could find were how to bind a ghost. So I got some iron chains, carved those symbols into them, read the incantation, and drew a ghost trap on the cellar floor of the Sylvane home with my own blood. Got plenty to spare, so that was no problem. The Sylvanes had moved into a different house after Jackson's death. Too many memories for his mother. But their old house was still standing and vacant, so I decided to trap him there. And there he stayed for nearly a hundred and forty years. Then when the old house got torn down, the trap cracked and the chains gave way, so he escaped, and the deaths started all over again.

"I thought it was long done, so I stopped checking the Tuscaloosa newspapers, but when this last story got published, I knew something had happened and he'd broken out of the trap. So here I am, to put it right. He's trapped again, and I just need to find a way to make it permanent. Then you two showed up and almost ruined my plan. Good job getting shot. Next time, don't bother taking a bullet for me; it won't do anything."

"Duly noted," Dean replies, patting his fully healed abdomen. "So you just spilled your blood over my wound and it healed me. How does that work?" Dean asks. "Oh, thanks by the way."

I smile. He doesn't seem all that thankful, but it's the thought that counts, I guess. "You're welcome," I answer sincerely. "I'm not entirely sure how it works, but just that it does. Not the first time I've healed someone, so I knew it would work. How and why I am whatever it is I am is still a mystery. A century and a half of research and I'm still no closer. I've ruled out a few things, but can't find any concrete answers. Just a bunch of old wives tales and myths. Now, seeing as you two didn't seem at all surprised by the presence of a ghost, I'm guessing you're not new to this stuff."

"Not at all," Dean answers. "We're hunters. We hunt ghosts, demons, vampires, and anything else that goes bump in the night."

"I knew about vampires, from when I was trying to figure out what I am. Met my fair share, too. Never had a hankering for blood or a dislike of sunlight, so I ruled it out. But demons? And there's more?"

"Lots more," Sam replies. "But more importantly, we know how to gank a ghost."

I sigh in relief. "Thank goodness. Okay, what do we need to do?"

"Nothing much, just need to pay a little visit to ol' Jackson's grave, do some desecrating and burn his bones."

Um, what? I stare at them blankly. "Come again?"

"It's morbid," Sam offers. "But it's the truth. We dig up the grave, pour salt and accelerant onto the remains and then throw a match. The remains are each spirit's connection to this plane. Once they're gone, there's nothing tethering them here, so they move on to either heaven or hell, depending on the kind of life they lived."

"Yep, and I'm guessing Ol' Jack's taking the express elevator downstairs," Dean adds. "On occasion, it's a certain object that the deceased is tethered to. So burning the bones doesn't always take 'em down. Or sometimes they've already been cremated. In those cases, we figure out what the object is and burn that, too. So, to kill two birds, can you think of anything of Jack's that we may need to burn along with his bones?"

Opal considers for a moment. "No, I don't think so. Unless he's somehow tethered to that damn tree," she responds. "That's where his ghost always hovered, even when he was dormant. It was ridiculously easy to trap him because he was just standing there, staring at it with an expression of pure hatred."

"Well, we may need to wait a couple days before we do that. The police and the press will likely be taking pictures of the tree as part of their evidence and stories that no one died this year," Sam points out. "But the bones… we can take care of those right now."

The three of us ride together in the impala to the cemetery. I lead them to the Sylvane plot and they find Jackson's headstone. There's no beloved son or any message on it whatsoever. Just "Here lies Jackson Sylvane – 1843 to 1864." I guess his family was pretty angry with him for what he did to me. I knew they didn't stop the Maxwells from lynching him, and a feudal war didn't start after that, either. I learned that Jackson and I were the glue that held our families together. And when we were killed, that glue vanished and the families both fell apart. At least they didn't all kill each other off.

The brothers take turns digging and before long, the coffin is revealed. "Ten bucks says he's not in there," Dean jokes as he plunges the pick axe into the lid. Yanking it away, it does reveal the long rotted bones of Jackson Sylvane. I take a closer look, to see if I can note any identifying marks. I see one and speak up.

"It's him," I confirm. "He was missing one of his bottom teeth. Never grew in." Dean takes a closer look at the skull and see that one of the teeth is missing. Not like it had been knocked out, but it never grew in the first place. "Rumour was that Jackson's mother was also his aunt if you know what I mean." I never did know if that was true, but his mother and father both favored each other quite a bit. If memory serves, back then, it was rumoured that Jackson's mother was a bastard Sylvane daughter, had out of wedlock with some tavern whore.

"Ah yes," Dean replies. "Good ol incest deformities. And you dated this guy?"

I shrug. "Apart from the missing tooth and the rage murder, he was an alright guy. And trust me, those were hard to come by in the 1860s." Dean smirks at me. There's a twinkle in his eyes now that I hadn't seen before. Maybe he's just now warming up to the idea that I'm a person. I just happen to heal really fast and don't age. Apart from that I'm totally normal.

"Wanna do the honors?" Dean offers, holding out a box of rock salt. I take the box and shake it out over the remains. Afterwards, Sam pours some kerosene and Dean tosses a match on the pyre.

"How will we know if it worked?" I ask.

"We go back to your house, and if he's still bound and gagged in the cellar, we burn the tree down tomorrow night," Dean explains. "And if he's not there, then it worked and we still burn down the tree for good measure."

"Makes sense," I answer. "I wonder if the town will be upset about the tree being burnt down. Maybe they'll rejoice and take it as a sign that the murders are over and done for good."

Just then, Dean's phone rings. "It's the police precinct," he tells us before answering. "Grohl," he says sharply into the phone. "You've got another one?" He looks at me, his eyes full of panic. I can hear the muffled voice of the officer that's calling him, but can't make out any words. "Yep, we'll be there in five minutes. Thanks."

"What's up?" Sam asks.

"They've got another body in the tree," he says. "This one mutilated beyond recognition."

I shake my head in disbelief. "That doesn't make any sense. We've got Jackson bound in my cellar. No way he's getting out of there, and all the brunettes in town have either left or dyed their hair."

Dean laughs humorlessly. "Yeah, that's the thing. The hair on this one… while most of it's red with her blood, the officer told me, she wasn't a brunette. She's blonde."

"Whoa, okay," Sam replies. "So either the dying hair hasn't fooled the ghost, or Jackson wasn't behind all this."

"Maybe he was a puppet?" Dean suggests. "Like something else is pulling the strings. A Demon or a pagan god, maybe?"

"That would explain the ritual of it all. I thought it odd that the ghost was completely dormant except the one night. Especially the part where she said he just stood there staring at the tree in hatred for 364 days a year," Sam replies. I'm staring at the both of them, eyes wide, taking it all in. I had no idea so many monsters and myths were actually true. I knew about vampires and ghosts and whatever I am, but nothing about demons and gods and whatever else is out there. I suddenly feel like the world is a much bigger place than I'd thought it was. "You okay there, Opal?"

"Yeah, I'm just… I'm learning more in the past few hours than I have in my entire life about the otherworldly or supernatural stuff that's out there. All the research I did, and sure I read a lot about gods and angels, and all kinds of monsters, but I never knew that seemingly all of them are actually real. It's incredible."

"And it's also super fucked up," Dean adds. "Our lives ain't pretty. This job sucks. But if we don't do it, who knows what the world would be like now?" I see him shudder at the thought and I wonder just what they've been through in their few years. There's definitely something to be said about the years in your life vs. the life in your years. I'm nearly 5 times as old as these two and I feel like I've barely done anything. Mostly keeping what I am a secret, which isn't easy, but still… there's more I could be doing with my seemingly endless life.

We get to the crime scene and I'm explained as a possible victim that the two FBI agents kept safe during the night and was still with them when they got the call. "I thought if he had no brunettes to kill, the deaths would end, but I guess he just found the next available woman. Poor thing. This is the most brutal thing I've ever seen in my life," the sheriff says once we arrive. I'm made to stay off to the side and not allowed to see the body. If we'd gotten there before her heart gave out, I could have saved her. But once the heart stops, my blood is useless.

I wait with an officer, making inane chit chat while Dean and Sam go over the body. I've seen my fair share of corpses, having worked as a mortician for a few years, so I'd not be worried about my constitution, but seeing as in this case I'm a "civilian," I have to keep my distance. "I just feel terrible," I say to the officer. "I mean, if those two agents hadn't been keeping me safe, maybe this monster would have gone after me instead, and this poor girl's life could have been spared. Not that I have a death wish or anything, it's just…"

"Survivor's guilt," the officer finishes for me. "I understand where you're coming from. You fit the pattern more closely than this victim does, I'm sure you've heard. I can't go into more detail, you understand." I nod. "I wish this would stop, though. I don't know why we don't have officers posted up around the tree, at least trying to catch this monster in the act."

I know why, it's because everyone is scared out of their wits of this tree. Even during the day and during the part of the year that Jackson was dormant, no one ventured near this tree. It gave off a negative energy and no one would touch it.

After assessing the crime scene, the brothers suggest we go back to my house again. We stop at their hotel where they check out of their room and pack up all their stuff. "You don't mind if we crash at your place, do you?" Dean asks.

I shake my head. "Not at all. It's not like I don't have the room. Hell, we all three could have our own rooms and bathrooms at my place, and it won't cost you a dime. You're more than welcome."

Once we're at my place, the first thing we do is check the cellar. The chains are empty and look as though they've been scorched by fire. "Yeah, he's dead alright," Dean confirms. I clean up the ghost trap and dispose of the chains in case someone ever decides to come snooping around this house. The last thing they need to see is a demonic looking trap drawn in human blood and chains with weird looking symbols carved into the links.

Later, we're all in the sitting room, trying to think of what could possibly be still killing people. "Okay, I know you guys are the experts, but here are my ideas," I begin. Sam gestures for me to continue. "So, one, it's a coincidence, and some other crazy wacko out there is using the anniversary of these killings as his own night of insanity, like a copy-cat. Two, like you said before, Jackson was just a puppet and this killing was done by whoever or whatever is pulling the strings. But if that's the case, what about the near hundred and forty years that Jackson was trapped in the Sylvane cellar? No deaths of this nature happened during those years at all. Even this brutal killing of that blonde woman… nothing even similar has happened here. I've been looking at all the murders closely over the years."

"Okay, so maybe with Jackson dormant, but not dead, the killings stopped," Sam adds. "Like whatever was controlling him wasn't aware that he wasn't completing the ritual or something. Like as long as Jackson was still here, this other thing assumed the murders were still happening. But tonight, it knew Jackson was completely killed, so it took matters into its own brutal hands?"

That's a definite possibility. "So if that's the case, we just opened up Pandora's box by killing Jackson's ghost. We should have kept him trapped. Did they find any evidence at the crime scene?" I ask.

Dean shakes his head. "Can't even ID the body until they try dental records. Even her fingers were shredded, so no prints could be taken. The lab is also going to determine if her hair was naturally blonde or dyed."

"Is there anything more we can do tonight?" Both brothers shake their heads. "Okay, then I say we get a few hours' sleep if we can, then figure this out tomorrow with clear heads. I'll make breakfast." Their eyes light up at that.

"Like bacon and eggs breakfast?" Dean asks, sounding more like a kid than he should.

"Um, sure, if that's what you like. I was gonna make grits and toast too. And hashbrowns if you like," I answer, confused. They both are practically salivating at the thought of breakfast. "I take it you're not used to having someone cook for you?"

"Neither of us have had a real home cooked meal in a very, very long time," Sam answers. "It's very nice of you to offer and to let us stay at your place."

I wave my hand dismissively. "It's no trouble. Honestly, it's actually nice to have someone know about me. Even when I was surrounded by my family in this house, I still felt so alone. No one else was like me, and I couldn't tell anyone. So, thanks to you for showing up and helping out."

We all go our separate ways into bedrooms. I'd taken the time to pull the dust cloths off of a couple beds. "I replaced the mattresses only a few years ago, so you don't have to worry about sleeping on 150 year old beds."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Dean replies. "You should see some of the motels we've stayed in. Better yet, maybe you shouldn't." He cringes and shivers in disgust. Yeah, I really don't want to know.

"Alright, well goodnight. I'll um, see you in the morning." I turn and head down the hall towards my bedroom. It's been the same room since I was a little girl. Sure it's been updated a half a dozen times over the decades, but it's really the one place I feel I can call mine. My fingers trail over the marks in the door frame of how I grew as a child. Mother would have me stand up straight as an arrow and put a ruler on top of my head. I remember trying to stand on my tip-toes to try and gain an extra inch or so. Mother always caught me though.

I feel a presence behind me and turn to see Dean standing there. "I never really thanked you for saving me," he starts, looking down at the floor. "I mean, the words came out of my mouth, but… at the time I didn't really mean them. Getting help from a supernatural creature is never high on my list of things I like. I thought you were a monster and was trying to figure out how to kill you." I swallow back a bit of fear at that. "I don't think that anymore. But, old habits are hard to break. A hunter like me sees someone who's been alive for as long as you have, and can do the things you do… well our first reaction is to shoot first, ask questions later.

"Usually, things that live that long are vampires, witches, pagan gods, or other nasty things. We kill them. It's what we do. But I can tell that you're not. Whatever you are… it's good, not evil. So thank you, honestly, for saving me. But not for my sake, for Sammy's. I don't know what he'd do if I wasn't around anymore. Kid kinda depends on me. I've tried to get him to be independent, but I'm his big brother, and he needs me. Just as much as I need him."

I blink back the tears threatening to fall. I can remember when my own brothers felt that way about me. They're all dead and gone now, dust in the wind, but I remember being loved like that. I step forward, reach up on my toes and kiss his cheek. He seems surprised by my gesture and blushes slightly. "You're welcome, Dean," I whisper.

Before more words can be said I turn and head into my room, brushing my cheeks to catch any stray tears. I've known this man all of a few hours and I'm feeling things for him. Whether or not these feelings are romantic is yet to be seen. But it's already a problem. I've never been able to let people get close to me. Before it's because they could never know my secret, but now… well, what's really stopping me now?

I'm turning down the blankets, about to slide between the sheets when I hear a knock on my door. Opening it, I see it's Dean. I wonder if he even walked back to his room or if he's been on the other side of the door ever since I closed it. "I um… I wanted to offer you something," he says. "Sammy and I have this… uh, bunker of sorts in Kansas. It's got a huge library of supernatural books and info. Our grandfather was something called a Man of Letters, and they created this places to document and keep safe all the information about every supernatural creature ever encountered on earth. There's a good chance that there might be something about you in there. I mean, that is if you're not the only one that can do what you do. Anyway, once this case is over, if you're looking for something else to do, or even just want to try and find some answers, you'd be welcome to come back with us to Kansas."

Before I can accept his generous offer, he turns and heads towards his room. He's a bit of an awkward one, that Dean Winchester. But I can't help but feel drawn to him. Both he and Sam said they've both died multiple times. Maybe once this Haunting of Tuscaloosa business is over, we can leave here and the three of us can get to know each other better. For some reason, I feel like my life is about to change more than it ever has in my 175 years.

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As you can see, I decided to throw a twist in the case. Jackson wasn't behind it on his own… something darker and far more sinister was pulling his strings. Next chapter, we'll discover just exactly what was going on, what caused Jackson to kill Opal in the first place, and how he got roped into continuing the murders even after his death. Plus a bit more info on Opal and she'll get to know the brothers more, too. Thank you for reading!


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